


Dressed for Carnage

by Ghost_writes_stories



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Dark Will Graham, Developing Relationship, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, London, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, POV Sherlock Holmes, Partners in Crime, Past Relationship(s), Post-Fall (Hannibal), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Relationship Study, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2020-10-17 07:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghost_writes_stories/pseuds/Ghost_writes_stories
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been solving crimes together for a long amount of time now, but when an infamous, yet also very mannerly cannibal decides to make himself comfortable in London, little do they know what is about to come.





	1. Beautiful in White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you, thanks for checking this story out!
> 
> A bit of information to understand the context of the story:  
I’m using the characters Hannibal and Will Graham from the TV series and I’ll use their selves AFTER season 3, so there’ll be spoilers, especially for the finale of season 3.  
As for Sherlock and John Watson, I’ll use them the way they’re depicted in the TV series but I’ll pretend the last three seasons partly or completely didn’t happen; there’ll be major plot differences so almost no spoilers.  
Also, Moriarty will be included... which is a spoiler in itself for the ones who know, which by now should be everyone.  
Hope you enjoy what I make of the characters!

The sun was just setting, reflected a thousand times in the skyscrapers London was so famous for, creating an incredibly beautiful spectacle for anyone that stopped to admire the hundreds of colours that were to be witnessed.

Of course, basically no one but the elderly and some children as well the sick ones that had to stay at home stopped long enough too admire the beautiful reflections and the sunset in general, for London was a busy city that, not unlike most of the world’s big cities, never truly slept; there was always someone arguing, an ambulance that sped to an emergency, a robbery. 

_Or a murder, _a dark silhouette sitting in an armchair thought, while sipping tea from an antique blue and white cup that had a crack in it. 

* * *

The streets beneath a very particular window were dark and shiny from the rainfalls that had stopped just a few minutes ago, much like snakes that were interwoven between the many buildings, and in every building, at least a few dozen people that were all busy with their own, small lives, not really caring for anyone besides themselves. 

Just before that particular window, a tall man stood, eyes sparkling with new life after he had just heard the sirens of two police cars that hurried towards a yet to be known destination, their tires screeching on the black streets, their noise the only thing to be heard. 

The man already wasn’t standing at the window anymore, in fact, he wasn’t even in the same house; he had quickly thrown on a dark, long coat, a coat that could’ve also been worn by someone in Victorian London, and had run down the small staircase, his footsteps echoing in the apartments he passed, and when he exited the building, breathing just a tiny bit faster, the door he had left open was closed by another man that tried to follow the first man as quickly as he could without tripping over something. 

A few minutes later, the tall man was rushing towards the yellow plastic of a police line that had been set up in a hurry, again just a few minutes before the man had arrived at the crime scene. 

The man had almost reached the police line now, his coat fluttering like a dark butterfly behind him, his hair messy because of the harsh wind that what blowing that night, his steps just as quick and determined as they had been in the other building a few moments ago, and when he reached the police line, he didn’t even stop but rather ducked under it while still walking, a movement so fast and sleek it seemed like he had trained it forever, and the young police officer that had opened his mouth to stop him didn’t even manage to say a word. 

“Oh, look who’s decided to show up again”, a pretty woman said, her dark skin glowing in red and blue shades from the police cars that still had their sirens running, her black, curled hair put up in two loose buns that made her look like a character straight out of a fantasy video game. 

“It’s the _freak_”, she continued, seemingly satisfied that two other men were standing close by and had obviously heard her; she twisted her mouth so spitefully it ruined her beautiful features and made her appear like a siren that was just waiting to devour an innocent man passing by. 

The man she had just insulted, however, hadn’t even flinched, muss less actually paid attention, for he already knew the woman’s ways and had been bored with her, and her attitude especially, for a long time now. 

The man walked towards the two men that had heard the woman’s childish insults and greeted them, his facial features in no way implying what he thought of the situation. 

“Good evening, Inspector Lestrade”, he said before wrinkling his nose as soon as he noticed the other man, standing a bit behind the Inspector. 

“_Anderson”, _he went on after a short pause, his face still neutral but his eyes stating something entirely else. Then he smirked. 

“The case can’t be too bad if you’re allowing him to work on it, Lestrade”, he added mischievously, “after all, it is very well possible Anderson is the worst member on your team. After Donovan, of course, but apparently, the two have already shared much more than just their equal stupidity.” 

Before even waiting for an answer, the man had already walked past the duo of men that was staring after him, Inspector Lestrade more amused than offended which made up for Anderson’s facial expression, that was somewhere between _that bastard _and _I’ll kill him right now. _

Meanwhile, the man had taken out his mobile phone, sent a quick text and was now busy putting on one-way gloves; just then, a second silhouette approached the police line, briefly exchanged a few words with the young officer guarding it and then ducked under it as well, although not even a bit as elegant as the first man had done. 

He also walked towards the two men and the woman that were now forming a small group, standing close together and discussing some unknown matter, and spoke with them for a few minutes. 

During their conversation, the first man had put on his gloves and was now returning to the group that consisted of four people, shouting “Come on, John”, as soon as he was within hearing distance. 

He again didn’t wait for an answer but rather just strutted back to where he came from, which was the shadows of a nearby building; “Emily’s Delicatessen”, it read, and the man positioned himself right underneath the advertisement and impatiently waited for the other man, John, to catch up to him. 

“What is it today with you, John”, the man in the shadows said, not at all pleased about the other man’s slow walk and general attitude. 

“I thought we had sorted out by now that you don’t really have a problem with your leg but rather had a mental problem. I would have thought you dropped the physically disabled veteran act by now”, he continued, and John could hear just from his voice (because his face was hidden in the shadows, just cheekbones and a mouth visible) that the other wasn’t serious; he could practically hear dripping sarcasm and light-hearted irony, so he didn’t react offended - John was used to it by now. 

Instead, he purposefully stayed out of the shadows, trying and failing to hide a light smile that crept on his face. 

“I could ask you the same thing”, he grinned. 

“What is it today with _you, _Sherlock?”

* * *

A few minutes later, after some friendly smalltalk (which Sherlock obviously didn’t refer to as such but rather called it a _serious conversation between friends”), _John and Sherlock, both equipped with single-use gloves, were ready to examine the crime scene which both Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan had warned them about, both in their own way which basically just meant that Lestrade genuinely wanted them to be prepared, whilst Donovan and Anderson were creeping around in the shadows, waiting for John or Sherlock, preferably of course both, to lose their cool. 

While Sherlock had always been the preferred object of hate when it came to some of the team’s members, John had only pretty recently been added to that list, especially concerning Sergeant Donovan’s and Anderson’s list of most unlikeable individuals to ever assist the police department of London. 

The reason for that was fairly simple; he was a friend of Sherlock Holmes, and as such, he had to be added to that particular list sooner or later - in this case, later, as especially Donovan hadn’t grown tired of trying to turn him against Sherlock, always repeating the same phrases: “He enjoys what he does too much, John”; “One day, we’ll be investigating a murder he committed, John”; “Maybe you’ll be his first victim, John”; and so on. At some point, John hadn’t even bothered answering anymore because he simply had nothing to say to her accusations. He trusted Sherlock, certainly more than currently anyone in this world and perhaps more than he had ever trusted anyone. 

“Come on now, John”, Sherlock commanded, already a few metres ahead of John, who (this time at least) really was trying to keep up with the taller man’s large steps. 

John grunted in frustration - he should’ve found himself a _smaller _friend, goddamnit - but followed Sherlock’s orders, who had passed a few other groups of police officers and members of the forensic team but, thankfully, no paparazzi or civilians yet - it simply was too late, or by now, much too early for anyone to pay attention. 

Sherlock walked, almost started to run by now, eager to inspect the latest crime scene, eager to catch another killer that didn’t matter to him at all but that he could add to his personal portfolio of murderers either safely locked away or tragically deceased. 

As of now, Sherlock hadn’t met anyone that was even close to being a real challenge to him; sure, he had had his fair share of absolutely and utterly crazy people, some of which had tried to kill him or John, but all in all, he had yet to meet someone that was just as good as him - it didn’t even occur to Sherlock that he perhaps, one day, would meet someone that was _better _than him, but he wasn’t all narcissistic, he simply didn’t know better. Even his brother Mycroft, who was in a class of his own, was oftentimes too predictable for Sherlock’s taste, and much too interested in what common people enjoyed and craved: money, and good wine and tasteful food, and expensive furniture, and good health, and, most importantly, power. That didn’t make him respect his brother less, but it did make Sherlock think of himself as the slightly better one of them both. Mycroft’s continuous and rather clumsy attempts to keep an eye on his younger brother certainly didn’t help, either.

Of course, Sherlock had also seen his share of murder scenes - of which most were personal murders, which were always the easiest to explain, in fact so easy that oftentimes, he didn’t even bother but let the police do their job. The times he was able to examine a truly interesting crime scene were few and far in between, but when Sherlock first laid eyes on the latest crime scene, he wasn’t just surprised, he was downright enthusiastic, and he instantly thought of it to be one of the best and most artistic crime scenes he had ever seen. 

* * *

John raced after his partner, his breath accelerating slightly - although he wasn’t the youngest anymore, he was by no means out of form, he was just _tired _\- but as soon as he even glanced at the body laying in front of him, he almost threw up. 

John Watson had as well seen his share of bodies, what with his long military career as doctor on the one hand but also when considering his many adventures with his partner in crime - pun intended, probably - Sherlock, who had practically forced him to take a look at this corpse or that murder victim. And while John certainly didn’t enjoy solving cases as much as Sherlock apparently did, he immensely enjoyed Sherlock solving the cases, so he always played along. 

Still, despite John’s military career, the many wounded soldiers he’d treated and their age difference, Sherlock had always been the one to stomach brutal murders rather easily, if not, dare one say, with no problem at all. Sometimes, John wondered what was going on in Sherlock’s head, of rather, he wondered all the time but was sure he would never find even the slightest clue. 

This particular crime scene however, which they had entered on a mild September night, when it was so dark that it wasn’t sure whether it was night or early morning, was especially gruesome, and John instantly understood (while trying not to vomit and consequently embarrass both himself and Sherlock) why both Lestrade and Donovan had seen the need - regardless of true motivation - to warn them beforehand. 

A young man lay in the shadows of the buildings that seemed to move closer together, slightly similar to a group of good friends that had known each other for a long time and now closed up to gossip about _that particular person _they all disliked. 

He lay on the street which was of an especially exquisite and rich black at that spot, a combination of the large buildings that threw shadows, the late hour and and blood that hadn’t yet dried but neatly surrounded the body like something alive, something that almost seemed to protect the body and that was only waiting to creep forward to settle beneath someone else’s body. 

The young man was quite exquisite himself, his pale skin contrasting the dark street and surroundings beautifully, his light hair spread around his head so that it very much resembled a halo, although it would have to be a bruised or broken one, for his light golden hair was sprinkled with drops of rich, red blood that was shimmering in the few lights that fell on it and reflected instantly, drawing a picture so unique and cruel it was almost impossible to bear for a longer amount of time. 

The man could’ve easily been mistaken to be asleep; his head rested on the asphalt in a natural way, his eyes were closed, his face was relaxed, his facial features were in no way distorted, his legs were stretched out completely, his hands were folded on his chest so that he, from far away, was just a light line on the black ground, almost like a crack in the otherwise perfectly composed street. 

The man was wearing a white ensemble that consisted of a white jacket, a slightly darker shirt underneath, and white trousers - the only thing that was differently coloured were his shoes, which were of a stunning red that challenged the rich red that surrounded the body. 

There was just one thing out of place, one thing that disturbed the otherwise peaceful slumber, one thing that turned it from incredibly beautiful and ethereal to cruel and gruesome and unbearable. 

That one thing was the young man’s heart, which he held in his pale hands that rested on top of his torso, and that had partly stained the oh so white jacket, dark red on bright white, an artwork in itself, utterly elegant and at the same time, an unbelievable and terrifying but well-calculated act of violence. 


	2. Cake by the Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter finally finished! Hope you like it.

John probably stared at the man that was laying in front of him for at least one minute straight, because it was his partner Sherlock who ripped him out of his state. 

“John, get it together!”, he said out loud, loud enough to reach John but not loud enough to be heard by anybody else. 

John lifted his head, no longer staring at the mutilated body that lay there in the shadows like a fallen angel - enough with the dramatic metaphors already! - but instead staring even more intensely at his partner Sherlock, who returned his stared in his usual, emotionless way. 

“What on earth has gotten into you, John?”, he asked, one eyebrow lifted a bit, just enough to show his displeasure with John’s sudden emotionality 

“You’re not that touchy usually, are you? Of course you aren’t, or you wouldn’t be standing here right now”, he added after a short break, eyebrow still lifted. 

John just shook his head, because he didn’t know how to properly explain his rush of emotions to his partner - it wasn’t that the crime was the most violent he’d ever seen, but it surely was one of the most disturbing, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it yet. Maybe it was because the man laying there seemed to peaceful, or maybe because the whole murder seemed more like an art installation and every moment, one could expect a museum guide to step out of the shadows and comment on the artist’s biography and intentions and whatnot. 

Maybe it was also just that as soon as one saw the corpse, it was clear that this was carefully prepared - most murders Sherlock had examined had a personal motive, it usually only took him a couple of hours, a few days at most to clear up who was responsible and mostly, it was a relative or a jealous husband or an even more jealous wife - the usual, so to speak. Most of there murders were therefore not planned beforehand and the murderers had been completely normal, ordinary people before which mad ether leave obvious traces and forget important things, for example suit cases or even strands of hair or skin under the victim’s finger nails. 

But this murder was clearly committed by a... well, what else to call it but a _professional, _someone who had been murdering for a longer amount of time now and who had years of experience, probably a serial killer that chose his victims randomly and that rarely left traces that led back to him or her. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock had chosen to ignore his still visibly shocked partner and had begun to examine the man, careful not to touch the exposed heart, for it could have some kind of evidence on it. 

John didn’t even understand why Sherlock bothered, because he was sure that his oh so determined partner wouldn’t find anything of value - heck, even the forensics team had left the corpse alone after taking a few samples, and usually, they crept around a body for hours on end. But with this one, it was absolutely clear there would be nothing to find, nothing to deduce, nothing at all that would give them a clue as to who had committed the murder. John sighed and watched Sherlock, who was busy observing the body from above now. John didn’t know what he thought to find, but he didn’t want to start an argument. He knew all too well that he couldn’t win either way, so he just kept his mouth shut in the first place. 

Sherlock continued crawling around the body for a good five minutes, but eventually, he had to give up as well. He stood up, clearly unsatisfied (probably with the murderer for not leaving any valuable traces), groaned and continued staring at the body for some time, his gaze grim and his eyes darkened. 

If John hadn’t known better, he would’ve been afraid of his partner. 

* * *

“So, what do you think, John?”

John almost shrieked but had enough self-control not to; nevertheless, he visibly flinched, enough for Sherlock to see (of course) and resulting in another tirade of light-hearted insults on why John was far too sensitive and what the hell was wrong with him today? and so on and so on. 

Eventually though (after John had made himself some tea and had offered to bring Sherlock a cup as well, who in return hadn’t even bothered to refuse but rather just scoff), John had gathered himself enough to give reasonable replies to Sherlock’s questions. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock”, he said. 

“I really don’t know what to think of it; it could be a one-time thing, maybe just the sudden desire to kill, but it very well also be the next big thing, as in the next serial killer that’s going to choose his victims by coincidence and that’s going to be incredibly hard to catch”, he added after some quite tea-sipping.

Sherlock of course, being one hundred percent Sherlock, which he currently showed by sitting in his patented pose in which he folded his hands so that all his fingers were stretched out and parallel and only the finger tips of one hand touched the finger tips of the other hand and formed some kind of roof and in which he rested his chin lightly on said roof, took John’s answer as an excuse to continue to show up how incompetent he thought his partner. 

“Well, well, well, aren’t we especially bright today, John”, he said, barely containing his smirk, obviously delighted at John’s rather slow thinking. 

“Yes, indeed it was one of those things, and I strongly tend to think it is the latter for the murder was executed perfectly, but more on that later on.” He paused, shifting his position slightly, then continued. 

“What I’m really interested in is, obviously, who it is, and why here, and why now, and, most importantly, if there is any way for us to find the person responsible. Normally I’d say it’s not worth the bother finding a serial killer if he stops his murders in a reasonable amount of time, especially if he leaves barely any clues...”, Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s strange looks when mentioning it’s wasn’t worth bothering. 

“...but with this one, I think it’s well worth the effort. It surely is someone who has committed a lot of murders by now, maybe even in different countries because I haven’t seen anything like it... and, even though I can’t prove it, I’d bet everything I have (which wasn’t much, granted, but still) that the murderer isn’t doing this out of pure blood lust - at least not completely. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s trying to get someone’s attention. Would you agree?”

”Sure, sure...”, John muttered before glancing out the window. Sherlock now glanced out as well, but couldn’t detect anything of interest. 

“What is it”, he asked, but John already started answering: 

“Don’t you hear that, Sherlock?”, he asked, utterly perplexed. “There’s nothing, no sound, no screaming, no arguing, no singing, nothing!”, he almost screamed now (although technically, John wasn’t absolutely right; there was traffic, as usual, there just seemed to be a lack of any human noise). 

Sherlock meanwhile, being his usual, cooler self, simply went down the stairs without a second look back (the only thing to look at would’ve been John, and God knew Sherlock had looked at John for long enough today or, more generally, long enough for a normal man’s lifespan; but Sherlock was by no means normal, so he only needed a short period of pause from his partner), and soon enough, he stood in Mrs. Hudson’s small, but nevertheless very clean and comfortably decorated living room. 

Mrs. Hudson, who by now knew Sherlock well enough to not embark in screams when he was suddenly standing in her flat without having knocked or anything of the sort, simply set down her freshly brewed cup of tea but didn’t bother getting up from her favourite armchair. 

“What is it now, Sherlock”, she asked in a friendly tone. 

“Was it John I just heard upstairs screaming? Should I be worried or was it your doing?”, she continued, visibly pleased with being obviously ambiguous. 

“Stop it already”, Sherlock interrupted her before she could pose further questions, possibly about how the two men shared room for sleep (they had two separate bedrooms, thank you very much, and also, Sherlock rarely ever slept; he preferred pacing around the flat endlessly in one of his long and flowing robes, thank you again). He really wasn’t up for Mrs. Hudson’s witty commentary right now, so he cut right to the chase.

“So, Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering whether you knew something about a possible... elimination of our neighbours?” 

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock”, Mrs. Hudson said sarcastically, shrugging her shoulders and sipping some tea. 

“It’s rather easy, really. Our neighbour from across the road, Mrs. Bailey, who is also a landlord, just told me the other day she had received a rather tempting offer to sell her apartments. I guess almost all of her tenants have simply moved out by now.” 

Sherlock had already ran back upstairs, not even listening to Mrs. Hudson finish, to inform John of his findings. He himself, of course, had his doubts - who would buy at least three rather houses in immediate proximity to each other without a proper reason? Sherlock was, by all means, not entirely narcissistic (contrarily to popular belief, mainly supported by Anderson and Donovan) but he suspected ulterior motives behind the sudden quiet and the even more sudden purchase of some houses - surely, it had something to do with him? 

* * *

Hannibal was sitting at a table of a nice, little café that was located just a few minutes from Westminster Bridge, which was perfect since he was planning to stroll down the bridge at least two times this evening. 

In front of him, on the fragile, small table stood a cup of truly exquisite tea - normally, Hannibal preferred expensive wine to any other liquid, but this particular brew really was worth his money. Not that he didn’t have enough, anyway - if he felt the need to, he could buy one hundred thousand cups of tea a day and still not have a financial problem. 

He was folded up in the chair comfortably, carefully placing his legs so as not to disturb passing pedestrians, and was looking at the by-passers and at the small, exquisite shops and at the sky that was of an especially beautiful blue today. He was wearing a suit fit for the nice, warm weather, eggshell tie on eggshell shirt with matching pocket square and a sky blue three-piece combination that seemed to challenge the sky’s beautiful colour scheme. Shortly, Hannibal looked like he owned everything he laid his eyes on (and, to stay truthful, one wouldn’t be entirely wrong to say the latter). 

Hannibal smiled, pleasantly surprised by a few last rays of warm sunlight before a large group of clouds covered the sun. He didn’t mind though, for Hannibal enjoyed all the seasons equally, just because every single one had its perks - he did admit, however, that fall held a special place in his heart which it gained because of a certain FBI agent’s aesthetics - of one was to wear only plaid shirts and long-sleeved Pullovers in earthy tones, Hannibal had decided, it was most appropriate in fall for the clothes then mixed and merged beautifully with the falling leaves and the warm light of the last summer sun. 

He reminisced about his time in the United States a bit more but eventually grew tired of it, ordered another cup of tea so as not to be an economic disaster for the café (he had occupied that table for at least two hours now, and he was very keen on seeming polite) and began to read the latest newspaper he had grabbed from a small shop downtown. 

“**Man found dead with his heart ripped out!”**, 

the headline screamed at him in bold letters. Hannibal just smiled, for the British police would sooner or later have a much bigger problem than just one murder victim. Well, they would have if his plans acted out the way he wanted to, and so far, he had never been a disappointment to himself, so he was sure it was just a matter of time before another guest from the States would visit him, and he had everything prepared for that case. 

“Oh, I’ve just heard about that on the radio!”, a young woman said; she was carrying a heavy tray that was loaded with another can of delicious fennel tea, scent so intensive Hannibal’s nostrils were filled with it, as well as with a beautifully ornamented, blue and white tea cup along with sliver cutlery and a small plate on which a tiny slice of cake sat. Though Hannibal normally never ate out if it was avoidable, he loved cooking few more than baking (cooking and baking was by no means the same thing, no matter what some people thought), which resulted in him ordering a cake of his taste at his favourite patisserie in Baltimore from time to time. He hadn’t found a cake shop that was even remotely as good as the one he was used to, but maybe this café could surprise him. Hannibal felt like being surprised, but he seriously doubted it. 

The woman stood beside him now, carefully placed all the things she had been carrying around on the table and bent down a bit to look at the newspaper. Hannibal instinctively wanted to move away from her (he didn’t appreciate closeness with people he wasn’t familiar with) but chose not to; it took quite some willpower not to flinch, but he sat completely relaxed, turned his head so as to better see the woman and smiled lightly. 

“Yes, quite the horrible incident, isn’t it”, he said, barely being able to contain a smirk that would’ve surely earned him a weird look from the young woman. He restrained himself once again. 

“Why, I just hope it’s a one-time thing only”, the woman continued, her friendly tone in sharp contrast to the subject they were discussing. 

Hannibal didn’t answer, he just continued to smile at the woman who waited for a second or two of he would answer, but then understood the non-verbal gesture and apologetically backed off, leaving behind a faint smell of freshly baked cookies. 

Hannibal sighed ever so slightly. Ordinary people. 

Now, he just needed to keep an eye on that sleek little detective, Sherlock Holmes was his name he believed, so that he wouldn’t mess with his plans anymore than necessary. Perhaps leading him on a wrong path and arresting an innocent suspect would prove to be successful, but Hannibal didn’t worry about Sherlock at all, for he had never met a person that could keep up with him (besides that certain FBI agent, of course, but that was a matter Hannibal would occupy himself with when the right time came). 

Until then, he would have his fun with the detective and his friends, he would observe and most importantly, he would _wait. _Patiently, and for as long as necessary. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my terrible knowledge of the exact location of the sights in London or possible cafés; I’m sure I’m by now describing something that doesn’t seem logical (the café, obviously) but don’t take it too seriously, please. I’ve only been to London two times, it’s a beautiful city and I love it with all my heart but I am terrible at geography.


	3. Masquerade Killed by the Son of Thetis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning (at least from me; it’s not even 7 am here and I’m already writing!) from me and Pardon me, I’m on vacation right now and it’s gotten a bit difficult to continue writing.  
But here it is, the next chapter - some rather unpleasant meetings as well as some insights on Hannibal.

Jack Crawford paced around his small bureau impatiently, his face as grim as ever, if not worse, his eyes pinched together, his face distorted as he was thinking and thinking and just couldn’t stop. 

He thought about Will, and he thought about Abigail, and he thought about the Great Red Dragon, but most importantly, he thought about a certain serial killer that he had had in arrest, safe and locked away, just a few months ago. 

_Hannibal. _

That damned man always managed to slip through Jack’s fingers, and even when he had been imprisoned, to Jack, it had seemed as if he had been in absolute freedom and liberty. 

Jack could still remember every detail of a particular visit, a chilly night that didn’t really fit to any season and that had been one of those nights that could make a man forget everything, even his family and loved ones, and just wander into whatever awaited him behind dark shadows and raindrops. 

Yes, indeed, Jack had an excellent memory, so much his wife had always loved to remind him he was, in more than one aspect, similar to an elephant - always a tad too slow, but always determined to fulfil his duty, and always keen on getting a job done, no matter how long it took. 

And, being both blessed and cursed with such an excellent memory, Jack also didn’t fail to remember every oh so small wrinkle on Hannibal’s face, his slight smile that never reached his eyes (at least not that Jack had ever witnessed), his eyes, two cold coals that didn’t really fit to his usually so charming and polite behaviour and that, at least partly, expressed Hannibal’s true feelings towards whoever he was currently talking to or looking at. 

In fact, now that Jack thought about it, his eyes had only ever changed when he had looked at Will.

_Will. _

Oh, poor Will, Jack thought with a sad expression on his face. What that man had had to endure, and all because of him. 

Not one day went by during which Jack didn’t reminisce about the first time he had really talked to Will; Jack, as always clothed fully dark, had approached Will after he had given a lesson to some students that were willing to put up with such a peculiar teacher, and Will had a lot to say about a exhibition. 

Jack couldn’t help but smile at the memories - it had been all so easy, just a few years ago, and if he hadn’t started off Will’s and Hannibal’s (in Jack’s opinion) abusive and manipulative relationship, Will wouldn’t be fighting for his life right now. 

Jack sighed. He didn’t know how he had even been able to keep his relatively high position - he had messed up pretty much everything, from falsely arresting Will over arresting Hannibal (which, as Jack had realised not too long ago, had been another horrible mistake) to letting Hannibal escape and, on top of all that, having another serial killer have a gruesome fight with both Will and Hannibal. 

Jack really didn’t know how he was still sitting in his oh so familiar chair, but he was. 

Maybe I should quit honourably, because it surely won’t be possible much longer, Jack thought, but he damn well knew he wouldn’t be able to actually go through with it. 

So he just sighed, again and again, and slumped down on the table and buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes and tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong anytime now. 

* * *

Hannibal made himself comfortable in a large armchair that had been standing by the window when he had entered the room about half an hour ago; he had been watching the opposing houses until now, so he only now sat down, long legs neatly folded although the room was stripped of all furniture except for that one chair. 

Hannibal had just returned from walking through his new properties, a few rather cheap houses (if the price of a few millions was cheap, that is - but in Hannibal’s opinion, it was a low price to pay for what he would, in return, receive) he had purchased from some also rather cheap human beings. 

A bit of persuasion (money, mostly, but also just Hannibal’s _charms_) was all that was necessary to clear the flats in just a few days, and Hannibal felt a certain satisfaction within his beating heart - he was just as capable as he had always been, no one, _no one, not even Will Graham _had been able to extract it from him, that particular sense for handling a situation perfectly, finding just the right amount of emotion to talk to a window that had lost her husband in one of the flats and so on and so on, and what was he even thinking? 

Of course no one had been able to - although Hannibal felt that, on some level, Will had changed, altered him. He just had to find out if it was a pleasant change, that was all. 

He rested his hands on his thighs, long fingers stretched out delicately, and observed what his new little problem was up to - we’re talking about Sherlock Holmes, of course. John, as friendly and caring and smart he was just wasn’t on Hannibal’s radar, in fact, he still didn’t think Sherlock to be a worthy opponent.

No, Will really had ruined all other social interactions for him efficiently - not that Hannibal minded, not at all, but until Will was ready for another conversation (possibly a bit of fighting or skull-cracking), Hannibal would have to occupy himself in another way. 

Right now, his eyes were restless, scanning the pages of a fairly rare copy of a collection of poems by W.B. Yeats - naturally, Hannibal was reading “The Second Coming”, and although he had known it by heart for decades now, he still enjoyed relaxing and rereading this specific poem over and over until his eyes hurt and he felt the slightest bit of dizziness creeping up into his skull and scaring all his thoughts away, at least for a few seconds. 

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; _

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, _

_the blood-dimmed tide is loosed,_

_and everywhere _

_The ceremony of innocence is _

_drowned, _

and, his personal favourite, 

_The best lack all conviction, while the _

_worst _

_Are full of passionate intensity._

Oh, how true Hannibal thought with grim satisfaction, for the world had only ever seen him as a monster, even when his feelings were of such intensity he couldn’t even begin to describe them, let alone have someone witness them. 

Well, except for Will. Will, Will, Will. 

When will Will come back, Hannibal asked himself, not intending (or maybe absolutely intending) the alliteration - for he loved nothing more than eloquent speech, even if it was only his own thoughts he was listening to most of the time. 

Perhaps it was time to make a visit. 

* * *

Sherlock was pacing around his and John’s flat restless, his dark locks flying in all directions, his hands never once still, his eyes searching for something that couldn’t be found, his muscles straining from walking around for hours on end, and observing all of it was John, poor, dear John who didn’t know how to help his friend and what to say to calm him down. 

John was sitting in an armchair that was placed close to a window, a position from where he could see basically the whole apartment, including some rather disturbing, meaty parts on the kitchen counter Sherlock had brought in a few days earlier and that John knew of well enough by now not to ask about or even allude to (although the smell was starting to turn into a rather unpleasant scent) as well as a lot of dark corners and dubious shadows, for Sherlock liked his living quarters darkened, all soft shadows and harsh edges, unlike John who loved open spaces, but in the end, living together with Sherlock required a sacrifice or two, which John didn’t hesitate to make. 

After all, Sherlock was the only true friend he had right now, and probably the truest friend he had had all his life. And, even though John had always hesitated to ask, he was also fairly sure that he was Sherlock’s only friend - not a surprise, really, given Sherlock’s general displeasure with all things socialising. 

John watched Sherlock for another half an hour before abruptly deciding that, even considering this was Sherlock he was watching, enough was enough. 

He stood up so suddenly his chair nearly fell backwards before demanding in, as he hoped, rather dominant tone: 

“Enough, Sherlock! You haven’t been sleeping, you haven’t eaten, you haven’t even drunk! This has to stop right now!” 

Sherlock, to John’s surprise, actually stopped pacing around the flat like a tiger in a cage much too small for it and was now looking at John, face expressionless but slightly different-coloured eyes gleaming in the rays of the slowly setting sun. 

If one was to paint a picture it would’ve been rather exquisite; John, standing on one end of the room, mouth slightly opened, brows furrowed, wrinkles of distress and worry showing, and on the other side, Sherlock, seemingly as calm as ever, his dark, full hair curling in natural locks that shone lighter than usual as they bathed in the day’s last sun rays, his cream-coloured skin flawless, not one wrinkle to be seen, his eyes apparently the only thing truly alive about him, two shimmering gem stones in his skull, waiting for John to say something, and between the two of them, sunlight in the most beautiful colours entered the room through a partly opened window; shortly, if one was to paint it, it would most likely pass as a Caravaggio. 

John came a bit closer, unable to express what he really felt; 

_oh, how much I would like to brush those rebellious locks out of his face right now, oh what the hell am I thinking, he’s your god damn FRIEND, why can’t you just stop stop stop stop stop it right now _

and even though he didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, the shadows creeping up behind his eyes told Sherlock more than he could’ve ever said. 

Sherlock sighed, taking a step back, 

_too soon_

and retreating into pacing around the flat, much slower this time. 

* * *

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume”, Hannibal said in a smooth voice, his persona completely changed; his facial expression quietly saying look at me, I am a mere civilian, wealthy yet open-minded and very reliable, his eyes shining in a light, friendly way, his clothes carefully picked; not too plain (after all, Hannibal had a reputation to defend, even if it was only in his mind and against invisible enemies; but, even if he didn’t easily admit it, he always compared other people’s outfits to his own and there had yet to be someone to dress better than him, at least regarding male competitors, for both Alana and Bedelia has quite exquisite taste. Oh, how Hannibal had loved crushing Chilton’s poorly dressed self, and he went all out on proving who was the better in this aspect, or in every aspect, for that matter) but also not too flamboyant, but rather discretely extravagant as he was wearing a navy blue suit with a dark red, silken shirt underneath that matched his pocket square perfectly.

Shortly, Hannibal looked simply perfect, absolutely put-together, an image of seriousness and reliability, and it contrasted greatly with Sherlock’s looks; not that Sherlock looked bad in any way, not at all, but his hair was completely messed up, his face expressing clear, unbidden annoyance, his eyes dark and gloomy, his outfit consisting of a loose morning robe that had seen better days and, on top of that, he was barefoot.

Still, Hannibal could feel quick glances at himself, could feel the other man’s eyes scanning him completely in a matter of seconds, and although it brought him no discomfort he was content that he had invested so much time in creating the perfect person suit this morning - appearance and behaviour as well as language, both verbal and non-verbal, had to fit together perfectly.

Still, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so direct and quick and efficient in controlling him, although that may have been a result of his sudden acquisition of the whole neighbourhood.

Hannibal thought for a moment how to react, then decided to put on a slightly nervous smile, serious facial expression slowly, oh so slowly fading away and making room for a friendlier one.

Hannibal stretched out one hand, saying with a steady voice:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Hector Ortiz”, and waited for Sherlock to respond.

Normally, Hannibal would never be the one to introduce himself first, but in this case, he had to appear inferior, at least in the other man’s eyes so as not to raise unnecessary suspicion.

Although, if Hannibal thought about it, he actually wanted Sherlock to figure out at least a bit - he didn’t choose this neighbourhood because it was so nice but because he liked a challenge and also because he had presumed it was especially safe and secure, considering one of its residents.

Sherlock stood, also waiting, observing, and finally responded with a cold and sharp “Good afternoon to you” before beginning to close the door.

Halfway through, he stopped, collected himself and opened up again, and only then did Hannibal realise Sherlock was probably quite nervous or excited or whatever it was that resulted in such a motionless expression, eyes searching wildly for the hundredth time for any clue as to why or who or what.

Sherlock cleared his throat, eyes now fixated on Hannibal’s, and Hannibal couldn’t help but admire their cold and unreachable beauty - of course they weren’t comparable to Will’s eyes, eyes of such a deep blue it seemed Will had trapped an entire ocean in them, and beneath the surface, a thousand shadows were creeping, eagerly waiting for someone to catch and study them, and Hannibal intended to be that person.

In fact, after thinking about it for a minute or two, Hannibal understood why Sherlock’s eyes seemed so familiar - they were the same as his own, with perhaps a touch more empathy or humanity or what it was that let human eyes shimmer and shine and appear lively. However, in general, Sherlock clearly possessed the eyes of a predator, and Hannibal couldn’t help himself - he was quite fascinated by the other man, and if he had the chance, he would very much like to take him apart (literally, we all know how well Hannibal can handle a knife, don’t we?) after toying with him for a month or two.

Still, that wouldn’t be sufficient for a long time. Hannibal still had to be reunited with Will, the sooner, the better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again, so you’ve made it to the other side? We’re slowly getting there, I promise - just a few more chapters until things start to get heated, perhaps even fewer.  
Also, sorry for the ominous chapter name, although I myself quite like it; in case you didn’t get it or didn’t even pay attention, it’s a reference to Hannibal’s cover name Hector, a warrior of Troja who was famously killed by Greek hero Achilles, who was the son of Thetis.  
Maybe I’ll get to further explore this reference, especially when Will comes around (we all know how well he understands Hannibal’s metaphors) and then, I’ll have to figure out who Hannibal’s Achilles is.


	4. Reminiscing Of A Guilty Mind

Will didn’t even need to open his eyes to know that Jack was standing at the end of his hospital bed; he could smell the strong scent of some manly perfume Jack liked so much and apparently used a little too much. 

_If Hannibal was here, _Will thought amused, _he’d probably frown and scowl and whatnot. And he’d lift his eyebrows just the tiniest bit to show his displeasure. _

_Oh, he’d absolutely hate this room, too. These blank walls, that small television in the corner of the room he’d never use anyway - come to think of it, I’ve never seen Hannibal watch TV. _

_And how he’d hate the food they’re serving here - not that he’d eat it, he’d rather starve to death than so much as even touch any of the things they’re calling food, but still. He’d be enraged they’d even try to feed him such utter trash. _

Will sighed. He didn’t want to talk to Jack, especially not after details of how the Red Dragon had been murdered had seen daylight, but he also didn’t want to stay at the hospital for any longer than necessary. They didn’t really help him, anyway - the only one who could help him probably was either dead or a thousand miles away. 

_But he’s not dead. He can’t be, he wouldn’t dare. He can’t die, he simply can’t. _

Will sighed once more before slowly opening his eyes; he needed some time to adjust to the broad rays of sunlight that hit his face and quite enjoyed the few moments of silence before Jack cleared his throat and started speaking into said comforting silence. 

“I’m beyond glad you’re getting better, Will”, Jack said. 

“We weren’t sure you’d ever wake up... but as soon as one of the doctors called, I hurried here as fast as I could. I’m sorry to do this now, but we have some things to discuss.” 

Will nodded; he turned his head to the side to see the manual control for his bed and raised one hand to change his position so that he wouldn’t have to stare at Jack from a lower point of view.

After a few tries during which he felt Jack’s glances on him, Will managed to bring himself into a sitting position. 

Although he was almost on Jack’s level now, he also felt the pain in his rib cage - it felt like an animal that was trapped inside and desperately used its claws and fangs to escape its red, living hell. Will restrained himself, he didn’t want Jack to know how hurt he was although he had probably already looked at all of Will’s medical files. 

Jack continued as if nothing had happened.

”Will, you have to tell me exactly what happened. How did Hannibal escape? What did you two do? Did you help him in any way? Did he force you? What was the Red Dragon doing at that summer house? Who killed the Red Dragon? Did you help Hannibal kill the Red Dragon? What happened at the cliff? Who pushed...” 

At this point, Will didn’t bother listening. No matter what he’d tell Jack, Jack would always have his doubts - especially now that Hannibal had vanished without a trace and there hadn’t been any new murders in the past few weeks that would fit his style even remotely. 

Will had hoped he could convince Jack that Hannibal had died but now that he looked into the other man’s worried face, deep wrinkles creeping around his mouth, a silver shimmer beneath his eyes that showed he hadn’t slept in more than one night, Will lost said hope. 

Jack wouldn’t give up this easily - he had declared Hannibal’s capture his lifetime goal, and he was all the more motivated now that he had had managed to get ahold of his target, even if it was by Hannibal’s choice. 

Will sighed. He told his story with a sore throat, his voice weak but his eyes as fierce and blue and lively as ever, and he mentioned everything - how he and Hannibal had escaped, how Hannibal had opened a bottle of expensive wine and how he had been shot a few seconds later, how the Red Dragon had tried to kill them both and how they had ended his miserable life together. 

Will also mentioned he had pushed both of them over the edge, and he saw it was the right decision as Jack’s gaze softened. 

But Will didn’t tell Jack how his heart had stopped for a second when Hannibal had been shot, and he also didn’t tell him how Hannibal had wrapped his arms around him when they both fell off the cliff, and neither did he tell him of the split second when he felt truly safe and understood - probably for the first time in his life - in the moments before he and Hannibal hit the rough waves of the ocean beneath. 

* * *

A few days later, Jack officially declared Will to be well enough again to leave the hospital for good, and frankly, Will was rather glad. 

He had asked for less and less pain medication of the last few days even though his wounds and his broken ribs and his whole body still hurt like hell, but he’d rather sit at home with his dogs and endure the pain than be caged in the small hospital room and forced to wait for another horrible visit by someone he used to know. 

His head, or, better yet, his mind was the one thing that hurt the most, anyway. Not only did he make a decision by pushing both of them over the cliff, he also started regretting said decision more and more. 

When he thought back at those moments before he and Hannibal hit cold, harsh waves and Will didn’t remember anything up until the point of waking up in a hospital gown, he could understand his decision but every time he thought about it he regretted it more and more. 

Will had always thought his and Hannibal’s lives were so closely intertwined it was impossible for both to live at the same time, but also impossible for one of them to live without the other, and that’s why at the time, he had come to the conclusion that both of them dying was the only valid solution. 

But when he thought of Hannibal, Will only saw life itself - never before had he met a person so indulged in life, a person so confident of themselves and of the life they led and a person that was so content with what they were doing. And, by God, if it was murdering people that fulfilled Hannibal, who was Will to deny him this pleasure? 

_I don’t know how I could ever dare to take his life, _Will thought bitterly. _I don’t even know if I ever want to see him again - I’d probably die right at the spot out of shame. _

_My God, how could I ever think I’d be entitled to take the life of a human being so much in harmony with life, a person so indulged in life itself that I didn’t even understand what I could possibly take from him because my own life was so bland and colourless when compared to his. _

Will didn’t know how he could possibly make a decision that radical up to Hannibal - if he ever got the chance to speak to him again, that is - and his mind felt as if it shattered into a thousand pieces just thinking about it. 

_He’d probably shrug it off as if it was nothing and explain to me that he’d been waiting for that exact moment for months now and that he’d led us to that house at the cliff on purpose so that we’d pretend to die in front of a nice scenery, because you wouldn’t have been happy with me just trying to shoot you - no, it had to be somewhere special, a place we could come back to and that would be burned into my mind and memory forever and ever. _

_After all, I guess you could’ve never been killed by me anyway, or anyone, for that matter. _

_You just wouldn’t allow it... and it wouldn’t have happened, because you’re YOU, you just **are. **_

* * *

Sherlock was pacing around his flat once more, and once more, he was watched by his dear flat mate, John Watson, whose worries grew bigger everyday he had to watch Sherlock walk around the apartment like a tiger in a cage that was much too small.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read the man claiming to be a certain Hector Ortiz; the problem really was that it had been almost too easy to read the man’s intentions and feelings and hidden desires and all the little things ordinary people focused on (if one could even call whatever they were doing focusing; after all, to focus meant to actually concentrate on a certain thing for a longer period of time, a behaviour Sherlock found many people just were too stupid to do). 

No, everything seemed to be perfectly fine and perfectly accurate and perfectly logical... but Sherlock still had a weird feeling about his new neighbour, a neighbour that was rich enough to buy various houses fairly close to London’s inner city but that was also rather shy and reserved... an inherited fortune could be the explanation, of course, because Sherlock couldn’t imagine someone so shy and reserved and pretty much anxious (just think of that friendly gesture, trying to shake hands.... and his hand, waiting mid-way for me to meet him and greet him and welcome him and accept him) being so rich just like that... 

But then again, Sherlock couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was exactly that seemed strange. It was just intuition and many years of living and analysing people and their behaviour and their appearance and their manners. 

Naturally, Sherlock had told John all the things that floated around his mind, but to be fair, John hadn’t even met the introverted visitor and even if he had, Sherlock thought highly of his friend but didn’t think much of his people-analysing skills. Not that John didn’t have any... he probably was one of the more skilled analysts in all of London (excluding Sherlock and his oh so dear brother Mycroft, of course) but frankly, he didn’t hold a candle to the two Holmes brothers. 

Which Sherlock didn’t mind, but right now, he would’ve loved talking to someone who could understand the way his mind walked around and about in his head. Of course he could always call his older brother, but Sherlock didn’t want to. At least not yet. Perhaps it was all easy to explain and he just worried too much without proper reason... but perhaps he didn’t.

* * *

Will was alone again, Jack had left about half an hour ago after being satisfied with Will’s barely-whispered answers about feeling guilty and how he regretted everything he did. 

Naturally, Jack had believed everything Will had told him in a raspy voice that still had to get used to talking after weeks of total silence, and Will hadn’t felt the least bit of guilt telling all these half-truths and total lies, he had only felt the slightest bit of sadness that Jack was so blinded he really believed anything Will told him. 

Will was laying on crisp and fresh sheets again, and he felt he would die any minute, simply vanish into non-existence any second now, or he’d be suffocated by the large hospital room that was only equipped with the most necessary of things and that didn’t in any way help his mind to focus on other things than how he had felt when falling down some godforsaken cliff in the middle of nowhere. 

Will sighed, and miles and miles of a vast ocean away, Hannibal was sitting in front of a large window that beautifully captured the setting sun’s rays, and by some cruel goddess of fate, he sighed as well. 


	5. Hollow Cheeks And A Patient Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Hannibal and Sherlock fans, to some more Will-loaded content and some more pacing on both sides.  
I’ve pretty much written all my exams by now (except for Latin, German and French, cough-cough) so I can promise I’ll be updating more regularly, but sometimes I feel like writing a whole chapter and other times I can’t even write a sentence, so it’ll stay a surprise, I guess.  
See you in a few minutes!

Will let the cool morning air embrace him tightly for a few minutes as if he was visiting a dear old friend before proceeding to grab his small bag of clothes, neatly folded, which Jack and Alana had brought him, and of a rather large number of books he had been reading during his unpleasant time at the hospital. 

The doctors had given official permission for him to leave the hospital during their visit this morning and as soon as Will had heard he was free to go, he had practically fled the blank white room, scent of disinfectant still in his nose, the constant beeping of a thousand machines in his ears and the complete and total silence in his room on his mind. 

Will didn’t look well by any means, and he was wearing some sort of old, worn-out grey sweater as well as a pair of rather horrid, washed-out jeans (a look that he hadn’t paid for, as many did these days, but that he had rather acquired by refusing to throw the pair of trousers away even when he had worn them for the past ten years, especially when walking his dogs in muddy fields) and on top of that he carried his small, black bag. 

To be short, Will didn’t look like a homeless person quite yet but he was fairly close to looking like a drug addict, his cheeks completely hollow (he hadn’t properly eaten for the past few weeks at the hospital; partly because he feared what Hannibal would say if he found out Will ate something as slimy and displeasing as the stuff they called food at the hospital), his eyes lying tired and deep in dark sockets, a silvery shadow, memory of many sleepless nights, gracing his eyes, his hair messy and uncut and as a result growing longer and longer (shoulder length by now) and his beard partly shaved (when Will has found the time and the strength to at least start shaving) and his stare similar to that of a madman. 

As soon as Will stopped at a street crossing, people gave him weird stares and Will felt more uncomfortable by the minute - a young woman with an even younger child that she held firmly by its tiny hand looked at him questioningly, her face partly covered by a thick woollen, plaid scarf, the child’s cheeks oh so very rosy and unreal, like a beautiful flower’s petals that were glued to the child’s face.

Will looked back at them with a blank stare, and when the traffic lights turned red and signalled the waiting people to cross the street he didn’t cross but stared after the two small figures slowly distancing themselves from him, and he stood there long after they had vanished into unknown streets, and the traffic lights were reflected beautifully in large puddles that had formed after the hour-long rain. 

* * *

Will opened the door to find his small house completely empty and uninhabited, only the smell of seven dogs that had occupied the small space for the longest time and shared it with him was left over, and a faint smell of the aftershave Will had stopped using not too long ago, after Hannibal’s remarks about how unfortunate it was. 

Will remembered Alana promising to take his dogs in as he had been at the hospital for several weeks, but he wished his dogs were here now - that’d take his head off the thousand things swarming his mind for good, because he’d have to let them and feed them and walk them and watch over them and give each of them an excessive amount of care after being gone for such a long time. 

Now, however, he couldn’t really do anything - the dogs were gone, probably happily jumping around the gigantic Verger estate and ruining carpets worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and he hadn’t thought of buying food when he was released from the hospital, too strong was his wish to return home, so the only thing left to do was making himself a large cup of tea and then sit down and reminisce.

* * *

Sherlock was doing what he was always doing - pacing around, mind full of things, not dissimilar to Will a few thousands miles and an entire ocean away, as he waited for Lestrade to call him back. 

When the telephone finally rang, he practically jumped at it and pretty much screamed at the poor phone. 

“Tell me _everything _you’ve found out about that murder! _Right now! _

What’s the matter? Have you quite literally lost your tongue? Go on now, I don’t have all day!” (Although technically, Sherlock very much had all day, every day, all the days). 

Poor Lestrade cleared his throat a few times, which was followed by a few more remarks from Sherlock’s side, and then started telling Sherlock everything about the most recent murder - the man beautifully clothed in white and red. 

To be short, the forensic team hadn’t found anything - not even a footprint - except for one long, brown lock of hair that had been hidden in the middle of the man’s heart he was holding with both hands and that had yet to be analysed, but when Lestrade wanted to comment that this strand of hair was indeed a very promising lead, Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence: 

“Don’t make yourself even more stupid than you already are, Lestrade. 

Really, don’t be so silly! If you haven’t found anything besides that hair at the crime scene then why would you think it’s the murderer’s hair? 

I’m positive it’s something the murderer has left there on purpose, for us to find and analyse and then lead us to something that has by no means anything to do with the murder, perhaps some innocent person he wants to see arrested or something similar. 

No, analyse it but do not, I repeat, _do_ _not_ arrest anybody, no matter how good his or her alibi is - don’t make this public!” 

And with that, Sherlock slammed the phone into its stand and continued pacing. 

And he had been pretty right with everything that he had said, except for the fact that Hannibal didn’t want anyone to be arrested - he wanted somebody to notice him and follow him and visit him and talk to him, someone who had nearly broken his heart - both literally and metaphorically speaking - more than one time.

* * *

Will was walking through the forest, and it was pitch black, only the sliver of the moon accompanying him silently and ever so merciless, hollow white light shining on dark shadows under his cheekbones, black shapes of a thousand leaves above him eager to swallow him whole. 

Pale leaves crunched and crushed beneath his thick brown boots, and their silent cries reminded Will of small bones being crushed beneath his feet in an Italian catacomb. 

Will turned his face to look at the moon crescent, and the sliver looked back at him without any emotion, the face of the universe only partly visible this stormy and cloudy night, the stars and even the moon sometimes covered by thick grey clouds and at other times hanging in the sky completely bare. 

Will knew the way he was taking since at least ten years and even though he had oftentimes ventured past the known path, he was now walking through completely new territory - he had left the path about two hours ago and aimlessly wandered about and around, his mind elsewhere at all times, his feet numb by now, his fingers in his pockets cold and slightly turning blue, his breath leaving his mouth in constant, small, white clouds. 

Will walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and he didn’t stop, and when he was out of breath or simply exhausted he made halt at some stump and sat down for a few minutes, staring at his boots, and then stood up and walked and walked and walked and walked until it was early morning and the birds began chirping in the trees above him, and all this time, he waited for a stag to appear behind a black tree and take him to another place, a new world, but no one appeared, and Will was alone in the vast woods.

* * *

Hannibal was watching Sherlock’s pacing through a smallish window, rather a hole in the wall really, his hands folded at his back, his breath steady and barely there because he was standing at said hole in the wall for at least three hours now, and during all these hours, his object of interest had been either telephoning or pacing around aimlessly. 

Hannibal was rather fascinated - hadn’t he given Will a piece of his heart long ago, he would’ve been quite interested in manipulating and pretty much seducing Sherlock all the same, but thruth be told, Sherlock was too much of a predator himself - whilst Will was a big-eyed, dark-haired, pale-skinned creature from another world that had somehow managed to capture vast oceans in his eyes. 

Hannibal sighed - he usually was quite patient, more patient than most, but when it came to Will, he could barely contain his excitement. 

He’d simply send his blue-eyed partner (partner?, Hannibal questioned himself. No, equal, he then decided.) a piece of his own, perhaps that’d give him the push necessary to seriously seek out Hannibal. 

Hannibal leaned back and smiled ever so slightly, content with himself and his current thought train. If this one proved to be inefficient, he had numerous other plans waiting in line. 

Hannibal’s smile didn’t falter when he took out a sharp, richly decorated knife and began unbuttoning his shirt before starting to smoothly cut into the skin that covered red, raw muscles and cream-coloured bones, and under layers of muscle fibre and skin and bones, waiting for Will and Will only, Hannibal’s heart lay dwelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice to see you again!  
Before you go, I’d really appreciate comments - even more than kudos, because I can actually improve or change something about my writing and plot when you leave a comment.  
Also, if you spot any spelling mistakes, please let me know - I’ll do my best to erase them from the face of this earth.  
Other than that, have a lovely and hopefully murder-free day!


	6. A Crown Of Fallen Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! Can‘t believe you‘re still here because it has been forever and ever since I’ve published a new chapter... so sorry!  
And once again, thanks and thanks again for reading!  
I really do appreciate it, especially since this is pretty ambitious for me, considering I’m fairly new to fanfic writing.  
Anyhow, hope you enjoy and see you in a few minutes.

Will slowly raised his head from a bunch of dead leaves that felt as if they were cutting sharply into the thin skin that covered his hollow cheeks. 

He sighed and coughed and his lungs were barely able to suck in all the air he wanted them to, but as always, Will fought his own body until the latter grew tired and simply gave up and just followed his orders. 

His hair was covered in leaves as well, approximately a thousand of them, they were intertwined rather beautifully with strands of long, curly hair, everything possessing the same colour of rich auburn and melting together, the leaves somewhat resembling a crown of fallen soldiers that had fought bravely and were now given what they deserved. 

Will was kneeling now, his legs covered in dirt and mud (but really, he was completely covered in mud, so why even bother?) and the sun above him shone unusually bright down on his crown of fallen leaves, of fallen bones, on his hair and let it look golden in these late afternoon hours. 

Will looked around, and to his utter surprise, in the distance, partly covered by the trees surrounding him and just visible because it was autumn, nearly winter now, he could spot his small house, looking as if was waiting for him impatiently. 

Will could very well imagine how the conversation would go - it would go somewhere along the lines of “_but where have you been, for god’s sake?”, _to which he would then reply “_in the woods, of course, couldn’t you see?” _And then, to top it off, he’d engage in a heated argument with his very own cabin at the end of which Will would threaten to burn the whole place down - _so, what’d you get out of complaining all the time, huh? Nothing much but ashes and burnt wood. Maybe you’re happy now._

Will shook his head slightly in disbelief - not only did he just vividly imagine a father one-sided conversation with his house, but he had also somehow managed to get back to his cabin even though he had had no idea at all where he had been going the past night. And apparently, he had also managed to sleep in the middle of the forest for a good ten or so hours, because he didn’t remember anything besides the total silence of the night and how desperate he’d been and _oh God did I really want Hannibal to appear, did I really? Of course I did, there’s no one to judge me so why should I be dishonest... no reason to, absolutely no treason except for the fact I’m still feeling guilty. _

_I don’t even know why... it’s not because of Jack or Alana, that’s for sure, because why should it be? I don’t owe them anything, do I? Of course not. I do, however, owe him something... for being such a miserable something and trying to kill us both, and for being stupid enough to actually believe you’d get yourself killed just like that._

Will sighed once more before silently making his way to his cabin that eagerly awaited him and swallowed him at once as soon as he reached its door.

* * *

_“ Will Graham!“ _

_„Are you sure? I need you to be absolutely sure.“ _

_„I am absolutely sure, Sherlock! It can only be a certain Will Graham!“ _

_„Good work, I guess. That will suffice for now. Send me the details, thanks, goodbye.“ _

And that was the end of a rather short-lived conversation between Sherlock and an indeed very excited Lestrade - the latter had just found out whose strand of hair the dead man in white had hid in the red of his hands, but Sherlock wasn’t so enthusiastic quite yet.   
  
He was completely sure that said Mister Graham wouldn’t be responsible for the murder of the man in white, and if they were especially lucky (cough-cough), he wouldn’t even be from Great Britain.   
  


Sherlock sighed - he was by no means eager to give this case up, simply because the murderer seemed like a very intellectual individual and also because Sherlock despised giving up on a fresh case, but he was inclined to believe all of the investigation would lead to nothing. 

At least that would happen if the developments on the case were any indication at all how good the murderer really was. And if he somehow managed to have another suspected with only a lock of hair ( and Sherlock very much believed Lestrade already suspected said Will Graham, even if Sherlock had explicitly told Lestrade not to do such a thing), Sherlock wasn’t too keen on finding out what else would result from this very special case.   
  


But he was also burning with interest in who the murderer was and why he did what he did and if they would be able to catch him and Sherlock has to admit he’d very much like a conversation. Even if it wouldn’t lead to the murderer’s arrest, he’d love to talk to such a dark mind. It wasn’t too different from his own, Sherlock feared, but he also hoped the latter.

* * *

Will fell into the shower more than he walked into it, his shirt still on and a bunch of dead leaves following him. He sunk against one wall of his small shower cabin, sighing repeatedly and loudly, and for once, he was glad his dogs were still with Alana - if he had had to care for his family of dogs as well, he probably would’ve fallen to the ground by the end of it and just lain there until death would’ve caught up with him.   
  


Instead, however, he turned on the water and sat down on the floor of the shower in an awkward position that would eventually result in muscle cramps that’d last for days and put his head into his hands and didn’t even bother to undress completely.   
Then, Will slowly started to cry, and the water suppressed his silent mourning and sung a sad song of time passing by instead, and his shirt clung to wet skin and the leaves that had followed him were spread out over the walls of the shower.   
Beams of sunlight broke through a closed window and let Will’s tears sparkle in a thousand different colours.

* * *

“Will? Will _Graham_? Impossible! He’s been in the hospital for the last few weeks and only got out yesterday! What? Yeah, alright. Call back if you find out something new, please. Thanks. Wait, I’ll give you my private number...” 

Jack just finished talking to some ominous British inspector from London who claimed they had found a strand of Will’s hair next to a murder victim when Alana stormed in, dark hair flowing, red lips shining, eyes flowing angrily.   
  


“Jack, under _no _circumstances will you order Will back to work for you, and under _no _circumstances will you talk to him about what happened before he’s ready, do you hear me? Jack!”   
  


Jack sighed, turned his head and left his desk to come closer to Alana who in turn didn’t back off but stood even straighter and fiercely responded his tired gaze.   
  


“Alana, nice to see you. I’ve already talked to Will - please, let me finish before you start another tirade. He’s told me everything and from the look of it, he seemed fine. A bit shaken, sure, but he didn’t seem to lose his head. He was aware of his surroundings and promised me he’d talk to me again as soon as he’d rested at home. And regarding his work, he can take a break. Not a too long though, I hope. After all, he does live.”   
  


Jack finished and waited for Alana’s response, which came immediately. She accused him of not caring enough for Will, and using him as a tool to find murderous psychopaths, and she made the prognosis that Will would be dead by this time next year if Jack didn’t worry more about his well-being, and that she’d have to visit Will to talk about his dogs, and... 

_But is she right? Is it really all my fault? How could I have possibly known about Hannibal? Hell, even you, Alana, didn’t know, and you were his student, after all. If anyone should’ve known, it would’ve been you. But you didn’t suspect a thing until it was too late. And I don’t want to pressure Will into going back to work, but if he doesn’t, people will die. They are already dying, if it really was Hannibal who left that strand of hair in London. Should I inform the British authorities? I’ll have to ask Will. Hannibal will probably have vanished by the time they start searching for him.   
_

* * *

Will jerked up in a fluid motion and hit his head on one wall of his shower cabin.   
Warm water was still running down his spine and his shirt that was completely soaked, and the floor of his bathroom was absolutely wet with water that continuously emerged from the shower. He had been sleeping for just a few minutes but in this time, everything had become even worse.   
  
Strangely enough, though, Will felt considerably better, almost as if his stay in the shower had helped clear his head and cleanse him from a cloud of dark thoughts and depressing feelings.   
  


Will turned off the water and practically ripped the wet shirt from his body - he felt as if it was strangling him, and not in a good way. He threw it in a corner of the now bright room and stepped out of the shower, careful not to slip and fall. _That would’ve been just too perfect, really - death by blood loss or untreated concussion or something similarly stupid and unnecessary._   
  
Will dressed in plain clothes he found, the first things he could grab from his drawers, and started mopping the floor when he heard the door bell ring. Will sighed. _Jack, probably. Or Alana. Or, Somebody help him, both of them.   
  
_

Indeed, it was Jack. He didn’t look too pleased, and Will was happy he’d woken up a few minutes prior to his old boss’s visit, or he would’ve found himself in an even more awkward situation than he was already in anyway.   
  


“Morning... Good day, Jack”, Will said whole opening the door and gesturing inside his small cabin.   
  


_Just look calm, you don’t want him to think you’re still traumatised - calmness is key, calmness. Concentrate, don’t screw this up, if you act suspicious he’s going to be even more attentive and careful and maybe, he’ll even try to get you back into the hospital... please, no, I don’t want to go back please I want to stay I don’t want to go...STOP IT HE’S LOOKING AT YOU ALREADY STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT... _

Will forced a faint smile on his lips and gestures once more.   
“Come on in already, Jack. Do you, eh... do you want something to drink?”   
  


_stupid stupid you don’t even have anything to drink other than tap water stupid stupid stupid oh please let him say no_

”No thanks, Will. Actually, I’m just here for a few quick questions and some more information. You haven’t happened to have heard anything about Hannibal, would you? Now, before you say no, please reconsider. This is important, and I’m not accusing you of anything, but think about it for a minute. Please.”

Will slowly shook his head.   
“I don’t have to think about it, Jack. You know I’ve been in the hospital for the last few weeks, and ever since I’ve left the hospital, I’ve been here. There’s nothing to tell you - I’ve just been relaxing and... eh... taking some long walks and showers, that’s all, really. I promise.”   
  
  


_that’s the truth I really didn’t hear anything about Hannibal please just let me be I didn’t hear anything I’m not suspicious let me let me let me be please please please don’t be suspicious_

Jack looked at him for quite a while, then nodded. Will sighed of relief on the inside, but kept a neutral face on the outside.   
  


“If you say so. Still, what about Alana and the dogs? I guess you’ll just have to talk to her, because she confronted to me this morning, accused me of being too harsh to you, but I came to say that I’ll give you as much time as you need. Calm down, get over what happened, and if you’re ready, we can discuss you coming back to work...” 

Will pretty much zoned out at this point - thank Whoever, Jack had believed him - at least for now. And Alana, she was always so protective, and he liked her for it, adored her, even, but he couldn’t talk to her in person, not yet. She’d immediately sense something was wrong, and although he had told Jack everything that had happened, he hadn’t told him how he had felt that fateful night on the cliff. Best not to risk her sensing something and telling Jack.   
  


“Yeah, the dogs... I’ll take them back in a few days, but I still have to clean up my house and buy some food and treats and new toys for them... and honestly, I’d be really happy if I could stay here alone for just a bit more. Could you ask Alana if that would be alright with her?”   
  


“Sure, Will. Whatever you want, but please consider what I told you about work...” 

And so the conversation went on, Will repeatedly promising Jack he’d think about working for the FBI again, of course he would, he’d be saving human lives, after all, but he really needed a bit alone time right now, so if Jack didn’t mind... 

Soon thereafter, Jack drove away into the daylight, and Will resumed cleaning his bathroom. Just when he finished, the door bell rang again, but Will didn’t hear it.   
He sat on the bathroom floor, deep in thoughts, and on the front porch, the postman placed a beautiful envelope with elegant handwriting on it and in it.   
  


_To Will Graham _

it read in cursive writing, and his address was almost a work of art, letters flowing into one another.   
  


_To Will Graham, constant part of my thoughts_

the first sentence of the letter read, and the envelope was stained with a few droplets of brownish blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You really read through this awful chapter? Thank you! My pacing is terrible and I know it, but I can’t help it. I faithfully promise I’ll post more regularly, and stay safe out there.


	7. Contemplating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhm. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?  
I kind of lost interest in writing anything for at least a few months, but I currently have no school so that’s a yay, hopefully also when it comes to continuing this fic.  
Anyone still reading has by deepest gratitude.

“Yes, this is Will. Will Graham. No, I’m at home right now. Could I talk to Jack Crawford, by any chance? Sure, I’ll wait...” 

Will sat on the one chair that was still somewhat okay-ish to sit on (he didn’t need to fall and break another rib, no thank you) and waited. He hadn’t realised it at first, but when Jack had been here yesterday to visit him, he had only asked him about Hannibal but he hadn’t told him why.   
  


Will had some suspicions - Hannibal had probably left a sign of some sorts, wherever he was right now, and Will really wanted to know what it was. After all, Hannibal being on the loose again was largely his fault, and even if he didn’t regret it, he wanted to know what that man was up to now.   
  


“Will? Are you still there?”   
Jack’s baritone dragged Will back into today, and he had to clear his throat a few times before answering.   
  


“Yes, this is Will. Hello, Jack. I, uh, I was wondering why you asked me about Hannibal yesterday? Did something happen?”

* * *

When Will hung up the phone after listening to Jack hesitating and dancing around a certain topic for almost half an hour before finally giving in and describing in excruciating detail a murder that had occurred in London just a few days ago, and that there had been some of his own hair at the scene of the crime, Will rested his head in his hands and sighed a few times.   
  


Then, he scoffed ever so slightly and reached for the back of his head. Was there a place where his hair was less voluminous, was there somewhere Hannibal could’ve taken the hair from?   
No, there wasn’t, he decided after having combed his hair for at least ten minutes. There really wasn’t, but on the other hand, some time had gone by since he had forced both of them over a cliff into the cold ocean.   
Will sighed again, contemplated simply laying down on the floor and thinking and _remembering, _but he couldn’t.   
He’d have to talk to Jack in the next few days, maybe go to London, get to know the local police force...   
  


_why did you do this? Couldn’t you leave me alone for just a little while?   
_

_No, of course you couldn’t, selfish and self-absorbed as always. Why’d you have to make this about me? Why don’t you find yourself a new experiment? Why does it always have to be **me**?_

Still, secretly, Will was somewhat relieved that there had been a life sign from Hannibal - he just couldn’t admit it, at least not yet.

* * *

Will didn’t know what to do next. He had so much to do and so little inspiration to even lift a finger. In fact, he just wanted to lay down flat on the hard, wooden floor and sleep and think and not dream. He had been dreaming enough the whole time he was in the hospital, so he had no wishes to further relive his awful decisions.

But he couldn’t. Jack was counting on him, despite everything that had happened, and he wouldn’t forgive himself for not doing anything.

Will groaned and slowly got up, poured himself a cup of stale, cold coffee that he couldn’t remember having brewed, made a subtle grimace at the taste

you’d never even pick up a cup of coffee from an ordinary coffee maker, no, you’d get a fancy press or whatever one uses if one has too much money and too much time and oh my god I need to stop talking to myself no to you

and then proceeded to step outside on the porch. Will had little to no memory of the last few days, everything was blurry - he has gotten out of the hospital, Jack had visited him, he had called Jack, Jack had told him about the London murder - but he definitely didn’t remember having signed off a package. Still, there it was, laying in the dim sunlight, and Will didn’t need to see the elegant handwriting to know who it was from.

Will sat down again, the cup of coffee forgotten on the table (where it would probably stay until doomsday or until Alana visited, sighed and cleaned up a bit), the letter in his hand, his eyes fixated on the writing.

To Will, it said, but Will didn’t feel like himself right now. 

_ Is this really for me? Is this all real, or am I still in a hospital bed, fantasising aimlessly and conjuring up letters from somebody I thought I would never see again?  _

_No, that’s wrong. You knew you’d see him again, you knew. _   
_I knew. I hoped to know, at least. _

Will carefully opened the letter, but there was no letter inside. Instead, there was something sticking to the envelope - was it a dried flower?

Will shook the envelope until the thing fell out of it, then picked it up curiously. Indeed, it was a dried flower, but some of the petals were... _different.   
  
_

_Is this dried... flesh?   
This can’t be true... it’s too much, even for you. You didn’t really cut off some of your skin just to send me some estranged letter without an actual message, did you? _

_Oh, but there is a message. Come, it says. Come to me._

_Come be with me. Don’t leave me alone. Come to London. Come to London and see what I did. And what I’m going to do, all just for you._

* * *

John was sitting on the corner of his bed, contemplating what to do.   
He didn’t really know how to help Sherlock, but he didn’t want to be absolutely useless, either. 

He had seen the way Sherlock had been changed after meeting a certain Mister Ortiz - the changes were subtle, barely even noticeable, but John knew Sherlock well and long enough to know there was something off.

He thought about what to do for a while, but when he stood up to talk to Sherlock, the latter was gone, and when he inquired Mrs. Hudson of his whereabouts, she had nothing to say except for the fact that Sherlock hadn’t been in a hurry and that he was wearing normal clothes (which, in John’s book, at least, was already a minor win).   
  


John briefly thought about trying to follow his friend, but he then stopped himself. If Sherlock wanted some time for himself, fine. He didn’t need to be any more intrusive than he already had been, and their talk could wait.

In the end, John just sat down again, this time at the table in the kitchen, and waited.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing around London aimlessly.   
He still didn’t know what to think of the murder and their new neighbour. Especially the latter, said Mister Ortiz, was the cause of constant shifting in Sherlock’s mind.   
Wealthy, yet not too arrogant, enough money to buy rather expensive flats in London but understated enough not to be impolite. On the contrary, polite enough to introduce himself to his neighbours, polite enough to make the first step.   
All in all, the man was everything someone could wish for, but Sherlock hadn’t seen a ring on his finger, and no change in skin tone either, so either the man had been divorced for a long time or he hadn’t ever been married.   
Had he been married, everything would’ve been easier, for the partner a person chose said much about the person itself.   
Sherlock groaned in frustration and walked along the Thames, his scarf flowing behind him like one dark wing, his coat tightly wrapped around his body even though the temperature was mild for a day in autumn.   
Sherlock was so deep in thoughts he didn’t even notice he stomped straight past a café, and straight past his new neighbour. 

Hannibal, however, had anticipated something similar and had been patiently waiting for two hours, a book by Fontane in his hand and a fresh cup of tea nearby. Also, the pastry at this café had been surprisingly delicious. Hannibal didn’t follow Sherlock, he just watched him as the younger man paced alongside trees and bushes and people without even a glance, and he smiled when he continued reading.

* * *


End file.
